Page 27 of Savage Enemy

“Good. Hurry the fuck up then.”

Manhattan uniforms would stop by after a shooting like this one. Corpses on the front lawn complicated matters, even if police were on my payroll.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER

Rocco and his crew arrived in a convoy of black cargo vans. He and several of his men jumped out and came directly to me.

I pointed at two who weren’t yet dressed for the occasion.

“You men go inside and help Bruce. Follow his orders. I want everything you can dig up on the Moscatelli and Klimov families. Addresses. Phone numbers. Blueprints of their fucking houses. Names, addresses, earnings of their associates.

“I want to know where the two families make their money, which of their businesses are most lucrative, their strengths, their weaknesses. All legitimate and illegal cash flows. Get me every-fucking-thing.”

Both men nodded. “Yes, sir.”

An odd sensation, like a physical weight settling on my shoulders, gave me pause, then the urge to look up struck me.

Enzo stood at the top of the stairs again, this time staring down at me. The boy clenched and flexed his fists while glaring.

“How could you do that?” he shouted.

I recognized the judgment on his face. The same judgment my mother had passed when I refused to follow the path my family laid out for me as my brother’s second. I had failed her. Now my son looked at me the same way. I had also failed him.

“How could I do what?” I shot back, my tone harsher than it should’ve been, considering the circumstances.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I pulled in a long breath. My son was terrified. No need to pile more on him. I used the release from a slow exhale to soften my tone.

“How could I do what, Enzo?” I repeated.

Tears streamed down his face.

“You let them take Mama!”

He hesitated then, visibly working to rein himself in.

“From your own house,” he added.

The way he forced back the anger vibrating in his blood filled me with pride. Because anger, when controlled and wielded with precision, got shit done.

The boy had inherited my volatility, and in his short time under my roof, he was already learning how to control it.

Soon, he would have to learn how to wield it.

I raked a hand through my hair and looked at the damage.

Bullet holes and blood peppered the walls. Plaster dust and tiny shards of Murano glass from my mother’s vintage vase collection littered the floor.

And crimson rose petals.

The roses I’d bought for Val.

I never had the chance to give them to her.

A certain poetry lingered in the mix of blood, violence, and scattered roses—meant to symbolize my love for Valerie—all of it now laid to ruin, ready to be swept away as if it never existed.

Like my trust in her.

When I got her back, and I would get her back, there’d be a lot of necessary atonement, and it would be just as unpleasant for me as it would be for her.

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